The day had been a masterpiece of chaos. Aiden felt like he had aged a decade since breakfast. All he wanted was a quiet moment. A cup of tea, a book, and a chair in a forgotten corner of one of the lesser-used sitting rooms. He found one, a small, cozy space with a window overlooking a quiet, walled garden. Perfect.
He had just settled into a comfortable armchair, a steaming cup of chamomile tea in his hand and a book on his lap, when a familiar, terrifyingly cheerful voice cut through his peace.
"There you are, my dear boy! Hiding from your adoring mother?"
Aiden's shoulders tensed. He didn't need to look up. He could smell her perfume—a cloud of roses and sheer determination. Queen Isolde glided into the room, not looking angry or frustrated, but… pleased. It was far more unsettling.
"Mother. What a… surprise. I was just… admiring the tapestry," he lied, not even bothering to look up from his book.
"Oh, pish. Tapestries can wait," she said, waving a dismissive hand. She sat down on a small sofa opposite him, her eyes sparkling with a secret, giddy delight. "I have far more interesting things to discuss. I saw your little visitor last night."
Aiden's head snapped up. His blood ran cold. She knew. Of course, she knew. Nothing happened in this castle without her knowing. "My… visitor?"
"Oh, don't play coy with me, Aiden," she giggled, a sound that was both musical and deeply unnerving. "The silver-haired beauty. Sneaking into your chambers so late. So mysterious! So romantic!"
Aiden stared at her, his mind a complete blank. She thought… she thought… "That was Eira. The elf. She was… researching something."
"Researching!" Isolde trilled, clapping her hands together in delight. "Is that what they're calling it these days? How charming! She has a very scholarly look about her, doesn't she? Very intelligent. A good match for you. You need someone to challenge that brilliant mind of yours."
"Mother, no. It's not like that. She was… she was talking to a face in a bowl of water and then she tried to scrub my back in the bath," Aiden said, his voice a desperate, frantic rush.
The Queen just smiled at him, her expression full of fond, willful ignorance. "Of course, dear. A 'bowl of water.' How creative. A scrying ritual. It's all part of the dance, isn't it?"
"There is no dance! She's just… weird!" he insisted, his voice rising in frustration. "She thinks I'm a science experiment!"
"And isn't that sweet?" Isolde sighed, placing a hand over her heart. "She wants to understand you, my boy. From your very bones to your… epidermis." She shivered with dramatic delight. "Love is blooming, Aiden! I can feel it!"
Aiden stared at his mother. He saw no point of entry, no logic he could use. She was living in a romantic fantasy of her own making, and he was the unwilling star. He had stumbled into a den of lions this morning, but this conversation was far more dangerous.
He slumped back in his chair, his face a mask of pure defeat. He picked up his book, holding it like a shield. "Yes, Mother. Love is blooming. Now, if you'll excuse me, this tapestry is simply fascinating."
Isolde just giggled, a sound of pure, unadulterated victory. She stood and swept out of the room, leaving Aiden alone with his tea, his book, and the horrifying realization that his mother now fully approved of his "romance" with Eira.
His quiet moment was ruined. His entire week was ruined. And he had a sinking feeling that things were about to get much, much worse.
The scent of lavender and courtly intrigue still clung to him like a phantom limb. He fled, his steps quick and determined, not towards his study or the gardens, but towards the one place in the castle that had always offered true silence: the rookery.
The air grew warmer, thicker, filled with the musky, ancient scent of dragon, straw, and oiled leather. It was a smell that spoke of earth and sky, of power slumbering. He found his usual spot, a secluded alcove overlooking the main rookery floor, and leaned against the warm stone, letting out a long, weary breath. For a moment, he just watched the great beasts doze. A Mountain Dragon snored, a sound like a rockslide. A pair of Jewel-Wings groomed each other, their chirps a delicate music. It was peace.
But then, beneath the symphony of slumber, he heard a different sound. A soft, heartbroken sob.
It was a sound so out of place, so fragile in this world of might, that it cut through him like a shard of ice. He peered around the stone column he was leaning against. Down below, in a smaller, more private alcove, he saw a figure kneeling.
It was Lyra.
Her shoulders were shaking, her head bowed. And before her, lying on a bed of straw, was a dragon he knew as well as the castle itself. Granite. He was one of the oldest dragons in the rookery, a creature of immense size and gentle disposition, whose scales were the color of storm clouds and whose eyes held the wisdom of centuries. But now, his breathing was shallow, his great chest rising and falling with a painful slowness. His eyes, usually a warm, intelligent brown, were clouded with a milky cataract of pain.
Aiden felt a pang in his own chest, a deep, unbidden empathy for the suffering creature. He moved silently down the stone stairs, his boots making no sound on the worn stone. He stopped a few feet behind Lyra, not wanting to intrude, but unable to leave.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice softer than he intended.
Lyra flinched, spinning around. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes wide and swimming in a grief so pure it was breathtaking. For a moment, she didn't seem to recognize him. She just saw a royal silhouette, another potential threat.
"He's dying," she whispered, her voice cracking. She turned back to the dragon, her hand resting gently on his snout. "Granite is dying."
Aiden stepped closer, his own frustration and self-pity forgotten. "He's old, Lyra. He's… lived a long life."
"It's not age," she said, her voice thick with sorrow. She looked up at him, her dark eyes pleading for understanding. "It's his heart. It's broken."
Aiden stared at the great, suffering beast. "A dragon's heart can… break?"
Lyra nodded, a fresh tear tracing a path down her cheek. "They bond for life. He and his mate, Onyx… they were together for five hundred years. A moon ago, poachers came. From the Spine Mountains. They took her… for her scales and her heartstone."
She stroked Granite's snout, and the old dragon let out a low, rumbling moan that was more expressive than any human cry. "He feels her absence every moment. It's a pain that doesn't fade. He's letting go because he has no reason to hold on."
Aiden looked from the grieving dragon to the girl weeping beside him. He saw not a lovesick maid, but a soul with a connection so deep, so profoundly empathetic, that she could feel the pain of another as her own. She wasn't just looking at him; she was seeing the world through the heart of a dragon. And in that moment, something inside him shifted. It wasn't attraction or infatuation. It was a fierce, hot surge of protectiveness. This was wrong. What happened to Granite and Onyx was a violation of everything wild and sacred in his world.
He straightened up, his jaw set, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The sarcastic, bored prince was gone. In his place was a son of the Dragonfly World, and its master.
"Where?" he asked, his voice now hard as steel.
Lyra looked up, confused by the sudden change in him. "Where?"
"The poachers. Where did they take her? In the Spine Mountains, you said?"
"Yes, but… that's their territory. It's too dangerous. The King's patrols—"
"To the hells with the King's patrols," Aiden snarled, his voice filled with a cold fury that surprised even himself. "They're just sitting there, letting this happen? Letting dragons be slaughtered for sport?"
He started pacing, his mind racing, the lethargy of months burned away by a clean, hot anger. "I'm going. I'm going to the Spine Mountains."
Lyra stared at him, her tears momentarily forgotten. Her eyes, which had only ever held a dreamy adoration for him, now held something new. A flicker of dawning respect. Of fiery, unwavering loyalty. She saw not the prince she had to serve, but a leader she would follow.
She slowly rose to her feet, her hand still resting on Granite's head. "You would… do that? For a dragon you don't know?"
Aiden stopped pacing and looked at her, really looked at her. "He's not just a dragon. He's Granite. And he's part of this kingdom. It's my duty to protect him."
He looked from the grieving Lyra to the suffering old dragon, and a new, heavy purpose settled in his chest. It was a terrible, burdensome, and utterly glorious feeling. He finally had a reason to be a prince.